


Black & Tan

by IamJohnLocked4life



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A little bit cracky, Aftercare, Anal Sex, BAMF!John, BDSM, Captain Watson, Established Relationship, Halloween Costumes, I assume they have a safe word and have done rough play before, It's For a Case, M/M, Mostly Pwp, Oral Sex, Pirate!lock, Power Play, Princess Bridelock, Roleplay, The Princess Bride References, True Love, Tumblr Prompt, a little bit fluffy, a lot of porn, all the sex, kind of dubcon but not really, not case fic, switchlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-28
Updated: 2014-10-28
Packaged: 2018-02-22 23:10:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2525171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IamJohnLocked4life/pseuds/IamJohnLocked4life
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Consulting boyfriends Sherlock & John have to stop a murder at a costume party.<br/>SPOILER ALERT: it ends in sex.<br/>There's love and romance and cracktastic silliness and fluff and weapons and rough power dynamics and kinks and cuddles. Phew! Just read the tags *^_^*</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black & Tan

**Author's Note:**

  * For [deduce-my-heart (linds7)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/linds7/gifts), [il0vedaydreaming](https://archiveofourown.org/users/il0vedaydreaming/gifts).



> A Halloween gift for my lovelies deduce-my-heart and il0vedaydreaming ♥  
> HAPPY JOHNLOCKTOBER!!!
> 
> Inspired by this string of tumblr prompts:  
> il0vedaydreaming: There's a case where the victim is going be murdered. AND it's a fancy-dress party. AND SHERLOCK DISGUISES HIMSELF AS EL ZORRO AND MAKES JOHN WEAR HIS MILITARY UNIFORM (and his dog tags of course!). AND THEY LUST AFTER EACH OTHER THE WHOLE NIGHT  
> deduce-my-heart: SHERLOCK OBVIOUSLY SOLVES THE CASE BEFORE THE MURDERER SUCCESSES. AND WHEN THEY MAKE IT TO 221 B THEY BOTH ARE SO HIGH ON ADRENALINE AND SO CONSUME BY LUST THAT THEY CAN’T HELP THEMSELVES AND GIVE IN TO THEIR INNERMOST FEELINGS AND PASSIONS AND KISS SO PASSIONATELY THEY END UP MAKING LOVE but tell me, does he leave the mask on?? and does John speak in his “Captain” voice??!  
> il0vedaydreaming: Do you think you could make Sherlock whisper and moan in John’s ear in french as well?

 

“A costume?” John raised his eyebrows.

“Yes, a costume. For the costume party.” Sherlock’s voice crackled with impatience.

“You’re taking me to a costume party?” John asked incredulously. “I mean, of course I’d love to go with you, but I never thought you’d be in for that sort—”

“It’s for a _case_ ,” Sherlock interrupted, the “ _idiot”_ unspoken but clearly implied. “A murder. Well, not yet, but there’s to be one and we’re to prevent it, except we won’t prevent it if we’re standing here looking doe-eyed at one another rather than locating our costumes and getting to the party before it’s too late. And seeing as it is nearly too late already, do try to keep up. Do you have a costume? Or a disguise of some sort?”

John furrowed his brow. “Not as such. Never really had a need for one before. Don’t s’pose my Christmas jumper would do?” He received an exaggerated eyeroll and annoyed huff in response. “Well, I guess I could always wear my old uniform…” Sherlock’s eyes lit up. “…though I feel a bit funny using it as a costume, seeing as it’s officially commissioned wear and a proper badge of honour and—”

“It’s _perfect_ ,” Sherlock insisted, rather too forcefully. “Now quit dawdling and suit up, Captain.”

“Yes sir!” John winked with a mock salute and turned on his heel to the bedroom.

*************** 

“Well?” John waited expectantly at the doorway, feeling somewhat silly in head-to-toe camouflage. Khaki camo worked well in the deserts of Afghanistan, but in their dark London flat, he stood out like a hedgehog in a bucket of kittens. Sherlock’s back was turned, standing at the window in stark silhouette, and when he spun around with a flourish, John had to fight for a moment to suppress his grin. He settled on pursing his lips into a low whistle. “So Mycroft wasn’t joking about the pirate bit.”

His lover stood before him sheathed in black, his riot of curls tamed under a dark bandanna, his face half hidden behind an inky mask. Sherlock stomped a leather boot in annoyance. “I am going to kill that smug bastard,” he hissed.

“Hey, easy there. I think you make a lovely pirate,” reassured John with a twinkle.

Sherlock drew himself up straighter. “I am not just _a_ pirate. I am the Dread Pirate Roberts, thank you very much.”

“I was going to guess George Hamilton’s Zorro,” John teased. Sherlock’s blank expression told him he hadn’t gotten the reference. “The Gay Blade,” John giggled, unable to help himself. Sherlock’s eyes flashed silver.

“I’ll have you know that the Dread Pirate Roberts is the most feared man in the world, his name is spoken in hushed tones and his reputation for merciless retribution is known in the farthest reaches of the globe. Besides, pirates are incredibly manly.”

John's gaze roved over his boyfriend's billowy lace-up blouse, from poofy sleeves to tightly cinched waist, and the word _swishy_ immediately came to mind. He raised his hand to cover the next round of giggles threatening to let loose, and managed to contort them into a rough cough.

“Ahem, is that… is that a real sword?” He pointed to the gleaming hilt at Sherlock’s hip, hoping to deflect the conversation. “Or are you just happy to see me?”

“Honestly John, must you be so painfully dull tonight? Your pathetic attempts at humour and your immature and frankly off-putting innuendo are even worse than usual. In answer to the first part of your inane question, yes, of course this is a real sword. One should never go into battle unarmed, as you well know, which is why you have tucked your unregistered firearm into the back of your waistband, quite illegal might I add, so yes to the second part of your unfortunate query, that _does_ make me very happy to see you.” Despite the steely tone in which this diatribe was delivered, by the end of it the hard line of Sherlock’s mouth had turned up at the corners, and John grinned back in return.

“Normally I’d ask how you know about the concealed weapon without x-ray vision, but it’s rather obvious by now that you’re Superman, so I’ll just add ‘brilliant’ and ‘amazing’, and leave it at that.”

Pleased with the flattery, Sherlock accepted the break in verbal sparring. He took advantage of the momentary silence to fully drink in the sight before him. Though he had imagined this scenario countless times, had even dedicated a wing in his mind palace library to the construction of this particular image, he was unprepared for the flesh-and-blood reality.

From the tips of his sandy hair to the soles of his tan boots, John Watson radiated warmth, shining brightly like a golden statue. Every fibre of his being spoke of honour, valour, and courage, a monument to all that is brave and good and true in mankind. Sherlock wavered slightly at the sheer power of the man he was lucky enough to call his own.

“Erm, everything alright? Will this work for the party? I know it’s not really a costume, but you said we were in a rush, what with the murder and all, and it’s the best I can do on short notice.” John fidgeted nervously, and Sherlock realised he had been staring for entirely too long. He quickly transferred the past few minutes into his Captain John wing to be thoroughly examined at a later time, and composed himself again.

“As I told you before, the uniform is fine, John. But it seems you are missing a key component of the outfit.” Sherlock extended his leather-clad fist, unfurling it dramatically to reveal a shimmer of silver. John crossed the room to meet him, and Sherlock flipped his palm to let the two metal discs drop and clink from the chain twined round his fingertips.

“Christ, you’ve been going through my things again? And how in the hell did you get these? I know for a fact they were in the bedroom just now, I saw them when I was getting dressed. You may be a bloody genius, but you’re no Derren Brown.”

“As ever, John, you see but do not observe.”  Sherlock dangled the identity tags closer to his face as John peered to make out the words. One was a standard issue tag imprinted with his corresponding data: name, service number, blood type; all entirely accurate. The other tag had a little divot to the left of the text, and somewhere from the ether of his arcane military knowledge, he recalled that notched tags were once used by American soldiers to locate next of kin. This tag read:

                         WATSON, JOHN H  
                         25189516  O NEG  
                         SHERLOCK HOLMES  
                            221B BAKER ST  
                              LONDON UK

John’s breath caught in his throat. Sherlock continued, as if he hadn’t noticed the sudden glistening in his partner’s eyes.

“Yes, I nicked your tags to ascertain your service number, purely out of necessity, as hacking into military databases can be quite tedious, what with all the sifting through bureaucratic records and byzantine security protocols. Much more efficient to simply go to the source, which happens to be housed in our bedroom. I promptly returned the tags to the impenetrable fortress that is the back of your sock drawer, so you can rest at ease knowing your clever concealment measures were not in vain, your military mementos are just as secure as they have ever been. Though I admit it was difficult to resist the temptation to index your socks, how you can live like that I—”

Sherlock’s rant was cut short by a mouthful of army doctor, hot lips pressed hard against his, a strong hand pulling insistently at the back of his neck. He let himself be snogged until all the air had been drawn from his lungs and they were both gasping for breath. With a hand on John’s cheek, he gently guided him back to arm’s length, and lifted the chain still clasped in the other. Carefully, he threaded it over John’s neck, placing the embossed steel plates over his heart.

“Ready to stop a murder?” he asked with a dangerous glint.

“Oh God, yes.”

*************** 

When it was all said and done, both the sword and the gun played vital roles in the apprehension and detainment of the would-be killer. Shortly after arriving at the Harringtons’ Halloween soirée and assessing the formidable crowd, Sherlock determined that the hostess was too prominently featured at the centre of social activity for public execution. A quick scan of the kitchen and catering staff yielded no results, so the next logical place to snoop was the master bedroom. Sequestered on the third floor, far from the revelry below, it was the one private location that Mrs. Harrington was certain to visit at some point in the night. John stood guard at the door, while Sherlock slipped in to investigate.

The bedroom proved empty, but a seam of light under the door to the master bath confirmed his suspicions. Drawing his sword, Sherlock burst through the threshold and found himself face to face with… Mary Poppins. It took a moment for him to remember that he was at a costumed affair, but that was all the time needed for the woman in the tailored topcoat and frumpy skirt to raise her umbrella and lunge at him with astonishing speed and skill. Memories of sparring with Mycroft inanely flashed through his head. Using the element of surprise to her advantage, the deadly nanny forced Sherlock’s retreat back into the bedroom. The furious clatter of their parrying brought John bursting through the door, gun drawn and eyes ablaze, and that was that.

Disarmed and subdued, the assailant was revealed to be the jealous mistress of Mr. Harrington, seeking to dispatch her competition after months of empty promises that her lover would leave his wife.   

“Boring,” Sherlock panted, chest still heaving from his swashbuckling theatrics.

“So she was planning to stab Mrs. Harrington? Death by umbrella?” John asked in disbelief. “I wouldn’t call that boring. It’s actually quite mad.”

“Her motive is boring, John, as is her method. I interrupted her in the ensuite, where she was replacing Mrs. Harrington’s nightly dose of blood pressure pills with a more lethal capsule.” He waved to the loo, where a scatter of white tablets lay on the counter. “The umbrella was merely a defensive precaution, a reasonable choice for a former national fencing champion who needed to conceal her weapon. Hiding in plain sight was easy at a costume party, the guise of a beloved childhood figure sure to distract from the sharpened steel tip.”

John was about to ask for a play-by-play of Sherlock’s deductions when Lestrade arrived, dressed predictably as a detective inspector and not a famous footballer, much to John’s disappointment. Apparently, costumes: not his division, even on Halloween. Once custody was handed over to New Scotland Yard, Sherlock and John hopped a cab back to Baker Street.

The ride home was abuzz with energy from the arrest. Sherlock’s knee vibrated in harsh staccato until John clamped a hand down firmly to cease its erratic rhythm. John’s other hand twitched in his lap, fingers clenching with the rush of adrenaline, while his eyes darted between Sherlock’s eyes and mouth. They’d had trouble enough convincing the cabbie to accept a masked man with a sword into his back seat, and Sherlock hesitated to give cause for ejection, but when John’s tongue flicked out to wet his lower lip, Sherlock couldn’t resist.

He clasped John’s face with gloved hands, pulling him into a heated embrace. Their lips met hungrily, open-mouthed and aggressive, each vying for control. Frantic hands scrambled for purchase, seizing handfuls of cloth and hair as they desperately fought to get closer. Sherlock had a knee between John’s legs, arms wound around his back, his entire length pressed against John’s side, when the driver cleared his throat.

“Two-Two-One Baker Street,” he said, eyes fixed pointedly on his meter. The pirate untangled himself from the captain, tossed a wad of bills at the cabbie, and yanked his mate out of the taxi, through the door, and up the flight of stairs to their flat.

Crossing the threshold, Sherlock spun around abruptly, slammed the door behind John’s head and pushed him up against the frame. He rubbed the hilt of his sword along the fly of John’s khakis.

“Looks like my blade came in handy after all,” Sherlock smirked. John’s lashes fluttered at the contact, but he forced them open to meet Sherlock’s gaze.

“Actually, you wouldn’t have made it out alive if it wasn’t for my SIG. _I_ saved _you_. Again. Face it, you need me and my big bad gun.” John rocked his hips forward for emphasis. Sherlock’s smug expression intensified as he withdrew and reached behind his back.

“What, you mean this little toy?” he taunted, producing the weapon and holding it high above John’s head.

“Wha…how did you—”

“Lifted it in the cab. Child’s play, really. You are so thick when all that blood is rushing away from your head. It’s a wonder you can function at all sometimes. I shudder to think how you managed in the army for as long as you did.” He swung the SIG from its trigger guard, dangling it just out of John’s reach.

John’s eyes flared white hot for a split second, and the next thing Sherlock knew, he was on the ground, arms locked behind his back in an iron grip, a sharp knee jammed between his shoulder blades, and a cold gun barrel pressed to the base of his skull. John’s voice came tight and grim.

“You’ve just made a grave mistake.” Sherlock swallowed. John didn’t sound like himself. “There may not be any honour amongst thieves, but in the army, we live and die by our honour. And you do _not fucking touch_ an officer’s piece. You will pay for this like the dog you are.” The knee at his back pushed him down until his cheek was flush with the floor. John leaned over him, letting his weight settle over Sherlock, and dropped his head down to his ear.

“In a moment, I am going to release your arms,” he panted hot and humid, lips brushing the shell of Sherlock’s ear. “Do. Not. Move.”

Sherlock inhaled a sharp shudder.

“Do you understand?” John growled. Sherlock nodded weakly. John pressed in closer. “Is that how you address a commanding officer of the Royal Army?” he demanded with a fierce bite to Sherlock’s lobe. Sherlock whimpered in response.

“I _said_ , do you understand?”

“Sir, yes sir!” Sherlock groaned, the words forced from his lips.

“Better,” John muttered, as he eased up on his hold. Sherlock felt John’s weight shift as he stood, but the barrel of the SIG remained at his nape of his neck. Slowly, his wrists were freed from John’s grip; Sherlock kept them pinned tight to the small of his back. He heard a dull click behind him, and then a swift brush of cotton on canvas. He didn’t need to lift his head to know that John had removed his belt, and when his wrists were again grasped by rough hands, Sherlock lifted them up to aid in their binding. John secured them with expert efficiency, first wrapping each one firmly before binding them together and cinching them taut. When Sherlock was trussed to his satisfaction, he leaned back, lazily dragging the gun from Sherlock’s neck down along his spine, relishing each break in its path as the nose bumped over his vertebrae. Sherlock shivered under its metallic caress. A steel-toed boot prodded his arse.

“Stand.”

Sherlock quickly stumbled to his feet, his legs eager to obey the gruff command. A hand clamped the back of his shirt collar and he was forcefully led to the rear of John’s armchair. John’s voice was in his ear again, a hoarse whisper.

“Do you know how we punish petty theft in the army?”

Sherlock grunted indignantly.

“Yes, petty, because you are a _common_ criminal,” John spat. “You are scum, not fit to lick my boot. There is only one punishment for such filth.” He shoved Sherlock down by the collar, so that his forehead rested on the back of his chair. His warm hands smoothed across Sherlock’s back, along his sides, tucking into the creases of his hips. Grasping his pelvic bones with a firm hold, he pinioned Sherlock back to meet his groin, grinding against his plush arse on contact. A soft moan escaped Sherlock, scarcely more than a whispered breath.

“You like that, do you?” John taunted as he thrust against his buttocks again. Sherlock could only roll his head helplessly on the rim of the chair. His knees went weak. If those strong hands released him, he would collapse. He was suspended between John’s chair and John’s hands, precariously balanced with his wrists bound behind him, John’s cock the final point of contact completing the circuit.

“I know your type,” John murmured with a hint of dry amusement. His fingers trailed along Sherlock’s pelvic crest, swirling in towards centre. “I know what you like.” The pads of his fingertips lightly traced up the obscene bulge of Sherlock’s straining erection, then curled as nails gently scraped their way back down. Sherlock whimpered.

John’s voice turned cold again. “Unfortunately for you, this is _not_ about what you like.” The sudden absence of John’s touch on his prick was shockingly painful, like losing a sense or a limb, and for a moment Sherlock couldn’t breathe.

John’s hands were on Sherlock’s belt buckle, quickly unfastening with military precision, whipping it off with fierce grace. The scabbard slid from the belt and the sword clattered to the floor.  Sherlock jumped a hairsbreadth at the noise, then determinedly planted his feet, bracing himself for what was to come. John drew the black leather strap across his expectant rear. He tapped the buckle over the inviting expanse, bouncing it playfully with a tinny clink.

John slid his fingers under the skin-tight fabric that stretched across Sherlock’s hips, and yanked the leggings down to reveal flawless pale curves. He reached around to where the waistband bit cruelly against Sherlock’s flesh, just above his cock, and teased it away from the skin. Sherlock sighed with relief, only to be punished with a sharp sting as John flicked his thumbs to let the band snap back in place, leaving him trapped in his cloth prison.

“I didn’t think the royal army approved the use of torture,” Sherlock grumbled, managing to keep his tone haughty despite his clear discomfort.

“You forget, pirate; her Majesty’s laws do not apply on international waters.” John’s tone was low and dangerous. “Out here, we use whatever means necessary to see that justice is served, and in your case, it is apparent that… unusual methods must be employed to yield the results I need.” He ran a hand along Sherlock’s shapely arse.

“Evidently you consider yourself above the law. I assure you – you are not. You are arrogant and openly unrepentant for your crime, but I will break you.” A crack rang out and Sherlock flinched at the startling sound before he even registered the pain of the blow.

A smile crept across John’s lips as he watched the welt form, a beautiful red slash marring the immaculate ivory canvas before him. He coiled his arm and released a flurry of lashes, alternating between fore and backhand in rapid-fire succession until they were both panting with exertion.

Sherlock tasted blood, barely registering that he had drawn it himself in his efforts to stifle his cries. The salty copper tang and the fire at his back and John’s ragged gasps fuelled the insistent throbbing between his legs. He rolled his hips, seeking some small friction, anything to quell the unbearable want that threatened to overwhelm his senses. He was losing control, and he couldn’t be buggered to care anymore. He thrust at the air, squirmed and shook, coming undone with desire.

He heard John chuckle softly behind him. “Gorgeous.” Supple leather stroked his tender rear. “Abso-fucking-lutely gorgeous.” A couple light taps that had Sherlock twitching, and then… nothing.

There was movement and the hush of fabric. The air felt cool against his heated skin. Sherlock shivered. The dearth of contact was worse than the blows. He prickled with anticipation. When he felt the smooth length of John’s cock press against him, he nearly wept.

John ran the head of his cock between Sherlock’s buttocks, tracing from spine to taint and back up again, over and over until a stripe of precome gleamed along his crack. Sherlock was trembling. He was stretched to his limit; clearly aching to press against John, but unable to without losing his balance and toppling head first to the floor. John bent his shaft down and ran it along Sherlock’s balls, slowly stroking it up to meet Sherlock’s waiting erection. He pulled in close, slotting them together, drawing desperate moans from Sherlock’s lips.

“You want my cock, don’t you?”

“Yes, _please_ ,” Sherlock groaned. “Sir.”

The “sir” was a nice touch, but it was the “please” that caught John’s ear. Sherlock never used that word, and now it was spilling from his mouth laced with desire and need and a hint of desperation. God, Sherlock was literally begging for it. Best not to disappoint.

“Oh, you can have my cock,” John laughed darkly. He grabbed the knotted bandanna at Sherlock’s neck and pulled him up to stand. Hands on his shoulders, he spun him around, then pushed him to the ground. Sherlock went easily, his legs collapsing beneath him. He blinked up at John through dark lashes, looking a little dazed as he took in the visual data.

John had stripped off all his camo, and pants (obvious), but still wore his vest (thin white cotton, nearly sheer with wear). His ID tags glinted on his chest. Sherlock’s gaze raked down his body, pausing at John’s leaking prick for a moment before continuing on its survey. Interesting: John had put his boots back on, after removing trousers and pants. The thick rubber sole increased his height by nearly an inch, and with Sherlock on his knees, it enhanced the effect of John towering over him. Clever (though he’d never admit it to John).

John was staring down at him, eyes dark with lust. There was a sheen to his skin, sweat drawn from the beating he had just delivered, and he glowed in the dim light of the flat. Sherlock smiled. He knew just where to start.

Leaning forward, he let his breath fall hot on John’s prick. It twitched in response. He dipped his head, blowing air along the shaft down to the base. John gritted his teeth. Sherlock brushed his lips over the light hair on the top of his balls, and nuzzled into the soft curls underneath. John made a choking noise deep in his throat. Sherlock drew the tip of his tongue along the inner crease of his sac, delicately tracing around the sensitive skin. A tremor passed through John’s legs.

“Fuck,” John gasped. Each flick of Sherlock’s tongue sent an electric jolt up his spine. His nerves were singing. When his testicles were suddenly engulfed by Sherlock’s mouth – his hot, wet, _perfect_ mouth – John had to grab Sherlock’s head with both hands to brace himself against the onslaught of sensation.

Sherlock sucked and licked relentlessly, moving in circles, reaching his tongue underneath to lap behind – _Christ_ that felt good – and then back around and over, swirling and teasing and never leaving his balls. His nose brushed the base of John’s cock, and John tightened his grip on Sherlock’s head, pressing him closer. He bobbed his head, stroking John gently, and goddamnit, Sherlock’s fucking nose was not going to get him off.

John pushed Sherlock back roughly, and glared down at him.

“I thought you said you wanted my cock,” he growled.

Sherlock just nodded, a self-satisfied smirk playing at the corners of his lips. John wanted to wipe that look off his smug face.

“Then Suck. My. Cock.”

Sherlock straightened up to attention.

“Yessir, Captain Watson.” He gave John a cheeky wink, and then his mouth was on the head of John’s cock and everything melted into soft wet pleasure. John closed his eyes. Sherlock’s tongue was everywhere; spiralling around his glans, tenderly caressing his frenulum, sweeping up and down his shaft. John shuddered as warmth flooded his groin and rushed through his veins. Sherlock was making noises that were downright pornographic, obscene slurping sounds that made John’s blood pump liquid hot as his heart raced to keep up.

When Sherlock began to moan on each exhale, John couldn’t keep his eyes shut any longer. He looked down and nearly came on the spot. Sherlock’s mouth was red and swollen, those impossibly full lips stretched around John’s cock and glistening – no, _dripping_ – with saliva. His bandanna and mask obscured enough from this angle that John could almost imagine he was some mysterious stranger, a rogue bandit he had captured during a raid. But then his eyes flicked up to meet John’s, that pale unmistakable cerulean stare made all the more striking in contrast to the mask’s black frame, and John’s breath caught in his throat. _Sherlock_. Those eyes, that mouth, _his_ Sherlock.

Possessive desire surged through his core. He cupped his hands around the back of Sherlock’s head and pulled him closer. John thrust into Sherlock’s mouth, deeper, deeper – _shit_ – he just wanted to fuck his beautiful face.

“Gorgeous, that’s just…unhh…gorgeous,” John grunted.

Sherlock’s cheeks were hollow with suction, his eyes wide with surprise. He choked a little when John’s cock hit the back of his throat, soft gagging whimpers that curled John’s toes. Sherlock’s breath came in short huffs out his nose, and his eyes started to water, but when John tried to pull back, Sherlock lunged forward and ravaged his throat on John’s dick. _Jesus Fucking Christ,_ that was unbelievably hot, Sherlock fucking his own mouth with John’s cock.

John squeezed his eyes shut. He was going to come soon, he could feel it. The tension in his groin, the tightening in his balls, the tingling sensation starting to buzz on his skin. Sherlock’s tongue on his shaft, his lips at the base, his hands on his hips…

Wait, what?

John blinked, his vision slightly blurred at the edges, his brain still foggy in its near-orgasmic haze. He barely registered the devilish grin wrapped around his cock before his hands were swept behind his back and bound with the very belt he’d _thought_ was holding Sherlock’s wrists. Sherlock pulled off with a pop, licked his lips in satisfaction, and stood.

John was a bit dazed, and Sherlock used that to his advantage. He grabbed John’s chin in one large leather-clad hand, and yanked down on his binding with the other, testing its hold.

“This should be more secure than your feeble attempt,” he said with a tug. “You _do_ realise I’ve trained extensively in the art of escape. I can slip out of fifty-seven types of rope knots and pick the locks on all the most common brands of handcuffs, and some of the more uncommon ones as well. Did you honestly think a belt would hold me?” He pulled John’s chin up towards him, while keeping his low grip on John’s wrists. The tension drawn across John’s taut muscled form was delicious.

“You disappoint me, _Captain_ Watson.” Sherlock tilted his head down and coaxed John’s chin higher until the cords in John’s neck strained and their lips brushed against each other lightly. John let out a ragged breath. His constricted throat turned the stuttering air into a gravelly moan. Sherlock parted his lips and drank in the sound, inhaling the air as if trying to capture the waves of energy. He closed his eyes and focussed his concentration, and _yes,_ he could feel the vibrations reverberate deep in his throat. He was feeling John’s voice on his own vocal chords. It was bliss.

Sherlock was brought out of his reverie by slick hot wetness invading his lips. He pulled back.

“Impatient, are we?” Sherlock mused, running his thumb over John’s lips. John’s tongue darted out (unconscious psycho-physiological reaction). Lovely.

Sherlock pressed his thumb between John’s parted lips. He pushed in and stroked his tongue, savouring the sensation. _God_ , the thought of John feeling him through the glove, tasting him, of his mouth being filled with the flavour of worn leather. Sherlock felt a thrill of power run down his spine. Yes, _his_ Captain.

He turned John away by the chin, and yanked him closer by his hands, until John’s fingertips were resting at Sherlock’s groin. Sherlock’s cock was still straining at the cloth, pulsing furiously with his heartbeat. He tilted his hips and rocked into the touch. Instinctively, John cupped his hands and Sherlock rubbed against him shamelessly. His head fell to John’s shoulder, and he pulled John’s chin up and back, forcing John to arch into him.

Sherlock ran his long gloved fingers down John’s outstretched throat, and John shuddered under him, passing the vibration with tremulous fingers to Sherlock’s throbbing erection. _Fuck_ that was good. He drew John closer.

“I own you now,” Sherlock whispered in John’s ear. “You’re going to do what I say.” He lightly caressed the ridge with his tongue, spiralling in from the lobe. John let out a feeble whimper. “And let me take what I want.” Sherlock dipped his tongue into John’s ear, and John went boneless, melting against him.

“That’s it, give yourself over to me.” Sherlock straightened up, supporting John with a steady arm snaked around his chest. His other hand propelled John forward, clasped tight around his wrists at the small of his back. Sherlock guided his hostage to their bedroom. John was pliant and pleasantly malleable, apparently in a sort of sensory shock. Sherlock could work with that.

He deposited the debauched soldier on the bed, nudging the back of his legs so that John knelt at the edge of the mattress, facing away from Sherlock.

“Don’t move,” he breathed before withdrawing his grip. Sherlock stood back and looked for a moment at the sight of John Watson kneeling on their bed, waiting for him. He catalogued the image for later study as he quickly removed his boots and cast off his shirt. He stripped away his leggings, gasping relief at his tortured prick’s sudden release. _Finally_.  

Sherlock closed the distance between them. He paused for a split-second, then his hands were unfastening the knot at the base of his skull. He swept the bandanna off his head, tousling his hair with a shake. Sherlock folded the cloth over once, twice, and brought it over John’s head.

The last thing John saw was the wall, and a blackness descending over his vision. Then everything was dark.

He felt Sherlock tying the blindfold, deft fingers careful to avoid catching John’s hair in the knots. It was oddly thoughtful. Which was mad, wasn’t it, given the situation? John couldn’t help grinning at the absurdity of it all.

“I’m going to bend you over, and plunder your booty,” a low voice rumbled in his ear. John should have found it ridiculous, should have laughed out loud, but those rich velvet tones shot down his spinal column, bypassing his brain, to resonate deep in his balls.

“You may be known on three continents, Captain Watson, but I’ve sailed the seven seas, and became… intimate… with the tongues of each land.” The sultry baritone was accompanied by a long, slow lick trailing behind his ear, down the curve of his neck, and ending with teeth on his shoulder. John’s mouth fell open and he panted out uneven breaths. _God_ he was going to have to come soon. It was unhealthy to be this aroused for so long without release, he was sure of it.

He felt Sherlock curl his fingers around the back of his neck and press him down towards the bed, his other hand under John’s chest, gently guiding with control. John’s nose brushed cotton and he turned his head, cheek settling onto a pillow that Sherlock had evidently placed there for him. Again, thoughtful. John sighed.

Soft leather stroked his thighs, kneaded his buttocks, spread him open. There was a light tickle along his perineum, a fingertip tracing delicate patterns across his testicles that sent sparks sizzling up his core. When the maddening touch was replaced by hot breath, John moaned and pressed back, opening himself wider. _Fuck_. That tongue. Sherlock’s tongue, sharp and biting and silky and sweet, _that_ tongue was lapping, spiralling, swirling around his entrance, consuming him with eager need.

Large hands gripped John’s thighs, squeezing with each slick thrust of tongue, and John wriggled his hips wantonly in response. His brain had gone offline, handed over control, given up all thoughts beyond _moredeeperfillmenowohgod!_ Sherlock’s tongue was breaching him now, lips pressed tight around his hole, licking and fucking him as thoroughly as he could and it still was not enough.

“Fuck me already, for Christ’s sake!” John managed to grunt out between frantic gasps. Sherlock slowed his pace, but did not stop.

“What was that?” He could practically feel Sherlock gloating behind him. “Did you say something?” Sherlock alternated speech and licks and goddamnit sometimes John could just kill the infuriating bastard.

“You heard me, you bloody wanker. Come on, fuck me!” That earned him a stinging swat to his arse.

“Fine,” John groaned. “ _Please_ fuck me. I need your cock inside of me _right now_.”

At once, Sherlock was up and over John, wrapping around him from behind. He was everywhere, engulfing him, and John’s entire world was the press of his body and entangled limbs.

“As you wish,” came the whisper in his ear.

There was some movement, subtle shifting of the mattress, and John squirmed with anticipation. His muscles were twitching, clenching and unclenching, awaiting the imminent breach. What he did _not_ expect was the sudden handful of cold slick wetness pooling in his palms and leaking through his fingers to drip down his back. The familiar weight of Sherlock’s cock settled into his hands, and John wrapped his fingers around the hard length, coating it with lube. He was rewarded with a dark throaty sigh and a few long thrusts. Rivulets of lubricant ran down his arse and trickled between his cheeks. It was tantalising, infuriating, excruciating… utterly Sherlock.

John whimpered as Sherlock withdrew himself from his grasp.

“Don’t worry, Captain, I’ll take good care of you.”

Gloved hands tightened around his waist. John felt the ghost of a kiss on his neck and a gentle stroke along his rear, teasing him open. An insistent force pressed at his entrance and John held his breath. Time stretched and strained, teetering on the brink, suspended in a tenuous balance.

The moment broke as Sherlock slid in, filling John, and everything was Sherlock. The heat from Sherlock’s body sizzled on his skin, the sweet musk of Sherlock’s scent flooded his senses, the deep growls at his ear enveloped him. John was surrounded by Sherlock, even as Sherlock sank deeper into him. Holding. Being held. John felt oddly comforted by the pervasive darkness behind the blindfold. He was safe.

Sherlock pulled out, slow and smooth, and when he thrust in again, he flexed his fingers, tilting John’s hips up and back and _ohgodyesTHERE!_ John rolled his head forward on the pillow, balancing on the top of his crown as he pushed back against Sherlock.

“Jesus Christ, that’s, that’s…” John was momentarily at a loss for words as the head of Sherlock’s cock hit _that_ spot, and glittery trails blazed through his mind’s eye. “That’s incredible,” he managed as Sherlock withdrew again.

“Mais oui, _tu_ es incroyable.”

“Fuck, are you speaking French now?” John gasped as Sherlock snapped his hips.

“I told you. Intimate. With the tongues. Of each land.”

John’s breathing hitched as Sherlock increased his rhythm, matching his pace to the cadence of his words. John’s dogtags jangled at his neck, lightly slapping his chest in time. John could feel his thighs start to tremble, as much from exhaustion as from the stirrings of orgasm. His body ached for release.

“Please…” he panted. “Oh god, please, I need to come.”

“As you wish.”

Sherlock’s hands slid up John’s sides, spreading across his chest and over his shoulders. John was pulled up to kneeling, a gloved hand guiding his head back to rest on Sherlock’s shoulder. Fingers traced down John’s neck to land at the tags. Leather gripped metal, muffling their sound in a tight fist.

Sherlock’s other hand slipped down to encircle John’s nearly-painful erection, rending a moan from deep in his throat. John writhed in his grasp, torn between his urge to impale himself on Sherlock’s cock and his overwhelming need to fuck Sherlock’s hand. Luckily, Sherlock was in control, and made the decision for him.

Sherlock plunged deep into John as he pulled firmly down John’s shaft, clenching at the base.

“Je t’aime, Mon Capitaine,” he whispered in John’s ear, and everything shattered into brilliant sparks of pleasure. John came with a sharp cry, waves of euphoria surging out in spasms, contract and release, rolling through every muscle and nerve and cell, contract, release, contract, release…release. He was vaguely aware of Sherlock coming, riding his own orgasm through John’s stuttering bliss.

At last, the final aftershocks subsided and they both stilled. John slumped forward, unable to remain vertical even with Sherlock’s support. Sherlock quickly unbound John’s wrists, kneading his biceps and forearms with tender squeezes to help recirculate the blood, and planting a delicate kiss on each palm. He helped John onto his back, manoeuvring the pillows to cradle his head and shoulders.

John lazily pushed the bandanna off his eyes, his gaze resting on Sherlock, who was now knelt at the foot of the bed, intent on John’s boots. Clever fingers danced over rows of eyehooks and grommets, loosening the laces with swift efficiency and grace. Sherlock removed each boot with care and peeled off John’s socks. He ran his hands down John’s calves and ankles, caressing his bare feet, thumbs massaging arches and fingers threading through toes. John dissolved into his touch.

Sherlock didn’t want to stop touching John, but he knew he must in order to _feel_ him. The black leather gloves, while aesthetically pleasing in contrast to the pale tops of John’s feet, were inhibiting his experience of John’s skin and the barrier could not be tolerated any longer. He briefly examined the splatter pattern on the glove that had stroked John through completion. Given enough time, he could calculate the velocity and volume of John’s ejaculate. Perhaps a more extensive study would prove useful for a future case… countless variables and parameters could be introduced and explored, and the base mechanics of such an experiment were not unappealing.

Sherlock set the glove and his thoughts aside, resolving to revisit them when there wasn’t a naked John in his bed.  He may have to replace the gloves, hard to say if they were ruined (mental note: Google “how to clean semen off leather”). If he had to shop for a new pair, it could provide a convenient excuse to purchase a set for John as well. John’s hand span was 7.4” from centre digit to wrist and just 8” circumference at the widest part of the palm, so a men’s size small for a snug, tailored fit. Might as well look into other leather accessories while he was at it; clearly more research in the realm of hyphephilia was required.

Sherlock had the fingertips of the second glove between his teeth, pulling it off absentmindedly while thoughts of leather-clad John flitted through his head, when he glanced up and caught John’s stare. His brain halted at the look of sheer adoration and lingering heat emanating from those dark cobalt eyes. Slowly, he dragged the glove off his long, slender fingers, biting and tugging each tip as he worked it off his hand. One more firm yank and the glove dangled from his mouth. Sherlock prowled up the bed like a cat presenting a kill to his master, tossing it aside with a shake of his head when he reached John’s chest.

John’s sweat-soaked vest still clung to his body. Sherlock dipped his head low, nose to fabric, and inhaled deeply as he roamed up John’s torso. The translucent undergarment revealed the darkened hollow of his navel, those delicious dusky rose nipples, and the pink-tinged ridges of The Scar. Always capitalised, the words hovered over John’s left shoulder, a spectral inscription from his war-torn past. Evidence of the events that brought John to London, to Baker Street, to Sherlock.

He lifted the hem of John’s vest and rolled it up his chest, inch by inch, basking in every bit of newly-exposed skin. John lifted his arms obediently so Sherlock could finally strip him bare.

Virgin territory now unveiled, Sherlock repeated his pilgrimage from waist to neck, this time with his tongue as traveller across the tanned expanse. The salty trail wound through soft downy hair and over sensitive peaks before culminating at Mecca. Reverently, Sherlock pressed his lips to The Scar, and trembled when the puckered skin met his kiss.

Sherlock Holmes was not a religious man, but being allowed this intimacy was as near to heaven as he could imagine.

His state of sublime prostration was interrupted by John’s hand in his hair. It felt like a blessing. Their communion consecrated under John’s benevolent touch.

John raised his other hand to Sherlock’s head, fingers twining at the back, and it took a second for Sherlock to realise they were unfastening his mask. Somehow, he had forgotten he was still wearing it. Internally, he flushed with embarrassment at the momentary lapse in awareness.

After a bit of fumbling, John freed the ties from their knot, and he lifted Sherlock’s chin as he swept the mask aside, letting it flutter to the floor. John ran a thumb along Sherlock’s cheekbone, tracing the sharp planes of his face. Sherlock looked up into his eyes, and smiled.

They were both completely naked at last, save for two silver discs resting on John’s chest. Sherlock trailed a finger down John’s neck, following the path of the chain to John’s heart. He felt the metal grow warmer at his touch, and the faint thrum of John’s heartbeat underneath. His eyes steadfast on John’s, locked in his loving gaze, he lifted the tags to his lips. John craned his neck up to kiss Sherlock’s fingertips, and for a thrilling moment Sherlock could feel the embossed steel suspended between their lips.

                         WATSON, JOHN H  
                         SHERLOCK HOLMES                          

Two sides of the same coin.

John settled back onto the pillows and grinned up at Sherlock.

“Next time, you’re wearing the blindfold.”

“As you wish.”

 

 

 

 

*************** 

Find me on tumblr: [iamjohnlocked4life.tumblr.com](http://iamjohnlocked4life.tumblr.com/) ~ Please say hi, I love to chat!

**Author's Note:**

> Some ID tag fun: John's service number - 25189516 - starts with 25, which (to the best of my knowledge) is consistent numbering for when he would have been deployed in Afghanistan. 1895 is embedded in the centre, a reference to the year ACD published The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes, and the poem 221B by Vincent Starrett, which BBCSherlock alludes to when John's blog gets stuck on 1895. 16 stands for January 6th, Sherlock's birthday. Finally, if you add the first 2 numbers (2+5) and the last 2 number (1+6), you get 7/7, which is John's birthday. Both their lives are intertwined and wrapped around 1895:  
> "Here, though the world explode, these two survive,  
> And it is always eighteen ninety-five." – Vincent Starrett  
> John's blood type is O negative because it's the universal donor, and it seemed in his caring and giving doctorly nature. In my headcanon, Sherlock is AB positive, the universal recipient, since he is more of a taker, using all resources available to his advantage. Being a universal recipient would come in handy in his dangerous line of work! In an ironic twist, Sherlock is the caregiver in this fic and John is the taker *^_^* I have a strange sense of humour...
> 
> Big thanks and squishy cuddles to deduce-my-heart and il0vedaydreaming for inspiring me to write this, and encouraging me throughout. This is the longest fiction I've written in over a decade, and I would never have done it without you. I love you forever!


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